


The crowd will hush

by dearpassengers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barricade Day 2019, Gen, Tags May Change, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 17:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearpassengers/pseuds/dearpassengers
Summary: They played in an orchestra. They start a band. Their force is strong.For everyone is just a little stronger than we are.My knowledge of orchestras and bands may not be entirely accurate, and this is still a unbeta'd work in progress, so feel free to comment anything.Title is from the song 'Till I hear you sing'.





	The crowd will hush

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There is a somewhat graphic description of male masturbation in this chapter. Beware of that.

Grantaire takes a sidelong glance at Combeferre, barely registers the floating notes as he reminds himself, the day is almost over.

The practice is tiring to say the least. The whole orchestra is running the same thing over and over again, admittedly too long a time for a group of professionals to get their heads straight. Maybe it’s because of all the contemporary pieces, Grantaire absently thinks, even the violin position is debatable. They are only one dress rehearsal away from the actual performance. He’s been stuck here for too long.

After the conductor asks for a final go-through of a few particular bars, he finally wraps up today’s work. Everyone begins to fold their own chairs, arranges them at the back of the room and putting their instruments where they should be kept. Those who are done faster (the flute and violin at most times) help the percussion to the store rooms. The room is almost silent, as if everyone loses their ability of speech.

Thank god it isn’t going to be one of the lengthy debrief days, Grantaire’s brain faintly supplies. He walks out of the store room, resists the urge of pressing his face in his hands. He blinks a few times and walks to the corridor, where Combeferre is already waiting for him.

Combeferre casts him a weary look, “Bad?”

What gave me away? He wants to ask, but he does not like the physical act of speaking right now and he’s not sure he would like the answer either. Instead he just says, “We should go.”

After over half an hour on transportation, they are back into their rented flat. Not even turning the lights on, Grantaire wordlessly sinks into a chair in the living room and throws his glasses on the side table. Combeferre sighs, walks to draw the curtain close and turns on a dim wall sconce. He, too, sits silently on another chair for a while, before going into the kitchen. He turns the kettle on and fumbles for a bit until he retreats with two steaming mugs in hand. He put one mug next to the poor glasses and asks, “Chinese takeaway?” Grantaire forces a smile while he lowers his head and replies, “Sure, please.”

When they are waiting for the food, Combeferre takes out his phone and switches the radio on, and finally they are accompanied by some random songs, nothing theatrical, just soothing voice telling stories in a gentle tune. They just listen. No one says a word.

Combeferre senses that it is one of the worse days, when they keep to minimal words and radio is playing instead of discovery channel. He has resigned to the fact but can’t help to feel a little worried, but he knows he has dealt with it fine and he could talk to Grantaire on his better days.

They later move to the small dining table, eating straight from the boxes with only music lingers in the air. With that light shaking out from the wall sconce, it was hardly romantic but rather spooky, as if shadow dominates the house.

Grantaire stops poking at his wonton and looks up. He blurts out, “I can’t do this.”

Combeferre freezes. He carefully replies, “What’s wrong?”

Grantaire laughs bitterly, gestures around the room, “This. This is wrong. I can’t have you always compromising for me.”

Combeferre holds up a hand and says gently, “I wouldn’t think anything like that.” He adds Grantaire’s name a beat later, hoping he is being reassuring, “’Aire, that’s just what friends do. Friends take care of one another.”

Grantaire looks away, “Okay, good for you then.” He drops his chopsticks and sinks back into his chair, putting his hands over his eyes, “It’s just getting harder. When this-” He exhales, as if it physically pains him to finish this sentence, “this thing is done and we can go back, I will quit.”

Combeferre mentally prepares himself for the worst, and this is pretty much it. He’s not sure of what to say.

Grantaire continues, “I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I’m almost 30. I can’t make my eyes to last even a day, the scores and the lights- urgh. There’s just no escape.” He rambles on, “It’s probably god’s effort to do our audience’s some good though. Hell, I should start believing now, shouldn’t I? What does atheist even mean, seriously?” His expression changes to a fake thoughtful frown, “Wait, there’s gotta be a name for people who don’t believe in _life_ -”

“Grantaire, it’s okay.” Combeferre tries to make his voice level and calm, he really tries. “I will always respect your decision, you know I will." He pauses to breathe, "Have you decide on what you would do after this?”

Grantaire rubs his eyes, “No, that I don’t know yet. I’ll need some time to think after we can go home.”

Combeferre nods. Soon after they wishing each other goodnight, he goes to his room.

And without hesitation, he calls Enjolras.

 

_-one week later-_

 

When they lands it’s almost midnight, Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Jehan pick them up. They talk with caution. Jehan stage-whispers his newest poem to Grantaire, Enjolras and Combeferre engage in a mild political discussion, Courfeyrac throws in anecdotes at every possible opportunity. Five people in this car is a little cramped, but this is something they need. Something that never changes, something familiar to hold onto.

They reach their building soon after, which Courfeyrac on many occasions has joked how they are exactly frat boys. They quickly bid goodbye to one another, and promise Combeferre and Grantaire a party tomorrow evening.

The first thing Combeferre does after he set foot into his room, is to absently strip himself, grab his towel, and step into the shower. He doesn’t like to admit when he’s tired, he figures it would keep him going longer. He turns on the water, and he just stands there. After some time, he finally notices the foggy mirror. He sighs to himself, half in disbelief, half in content. There has been a long time since he can allow himself to fall into relax mode, now he obviously has to pay the debt, which means-

He curses himself under his breath for failing to focus. He turns off the water, and tries to commit to the shower process like a normal human being. He is about half successful when he looks down and sees his upper body is covered in really little foam and lower body completely foamless. He silently questions what he has actually used as the body-wash. Or could it be he leaves them on for too long? He scrambles to attention and ‘reapplies’ them.

He shudders when his hand touches his cock. The familiar feeling sends something down his spine. He needs this. It feels like forever since the last time he had such privacy. He holds it tentatively and starts stroking himself. He doesn’t think about anything, just focusing on his hand and his now fully erect cock. He tries to do this slowly but he could not, he throws back his head and bites his lower lip in pleasure as his hand moves faster. In a few minutes, he comes violently over his other hand, breathing heavily as he seems to forget for a moment how to stand.

He washes himself again, goes to bed, lies there until he falls asleep.

In another room, Grantaire puts away his suitcase, sits on the bed. He looks around, not that he will see anything in dark clearly, not that he needs to.

He takes out his phone, opens his Memo, already prepares to scroll down. There is only one line. He reads before he can stop himself, “Been processed by happiness for days. No reasons.” His lips quirk up, almost a smile. This is a mock to him in his face. He remembers he thought it would be worth noting. And he thought he would make progress. What a fool.

Who is he to be happy? ‘Happy’ doesn’t agree with him. His stomach always feels like it’s filled with lead, the painful dread that leaves his extremities cold, his chest constricted, his brain silent, himself numb.

He tries to smile. It doesn’t matter.

He leaves his phone be. He runs a quick shower, dresses, and sits in the dark.


End file.
